Centuries
by themusespeaks
Summary: USUK. A glimpse into the past, back into the years, back to the day where it all began, and the day when it all ended. The story of discovery, betrayal, love and war. America and England. Two men. One history. "Who would've thought, huh?" He echoes, voice rising like fog, the rest of the night falling away to the dawn and the constant thrumming of another heart against his own.


**Summary:** Canonverse. A glimpse into the past; the point where it all began, and the day when it all ended. A story of discovery, betrayal, love and war. America and England, two men. One history. "Who would've thought, huh?"

**Notes:** This is history, so there will be mentions of blood and a little violence. Oh, and I've made use of flashbacks, so heads up. Inspired by the quote below.

_**Centuries  
**_

"_That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me.  
But, it is the same with any life._

_Imagine one selected day struck out of it and think how different its course would have been. Pause, you who read this, and think for a long moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day."  
_

_Charles Dickens,__Great Expectations_

X

**1607**

"Gold," the little boy chirps, all smiles and blue eyes and sun-bronzed hair. England stares blankly at the bundle of ripe corn in the youth's arms, and then slowly shifts his gaze towards the one held out waiting for him. "Just like you asked."

**1765-ii**

"I thought we were brothers."

The question is spoken in monotone, laden with just a whisper of the belligerence quivering beneath the boy's downcast eyes. The room tenses, the air growing heavy and thick enough to cut with a knife. There is no sound, only the crackling of purple embers by the stone fireplace, the constant _scrape scrape scrape_ of England's silver knife and the tinkle of his tea cup as he lifts it to his lips. England's tilts his face to acknowledge the boy—no, not a boy. A teenager would be more precise, a fledgling, all gangly limbs and broad, broad shoulders and legs that went on for weeks, well on his way to becoming a young man.

"Of course we are," England says at length, gaze sliding down to America's plate where his food is left untouched. "Whatever to do you mean by that?"

"You know exactly what I mean, England," And here America looks at him straight in the eyes, determined. In the back of his mind, England registers the thought that Alfred has never called him by that name. Not England, or Britain, but _Arthur_, _Artie. _But never England. The formality leaves him cold and distant – did he think him a stranger? Did all those years spent side by side mean nothing? – and so he pauses mid-chew and regards his beloved colony silently, allowing him to go on.

"I—," America begins unsurely, struggling to find the words. "Look. I know you're tired from fighting all these wars, trying to expand your empire and all. And I also know that you're pretty much broke right now. I know that, but—" his gaze steadies, growing surer, unwavering under England's frosty stare. "Why do _my_ people have to bear the brunt of your failure? Why do _we_ have to pay for your economy? My people - they don't want this, I don't want this, England. I… I just don't get _why_, it's not right, it's unfair—"

England unclenches the hand he never realized he clenched. "Listen to yourself," he snarls, suddenly growing angry. The selfish git. After everything he did . . . "Are you so blind as to not see why I'm doing this? Has it not occurred to you that this is, more than anything, is for your sake?" America looks askance at his reply, and England feels a second wave of frustration wash over him. "You bloody Americans. Every single one of you—always complaining, always wanting more. All that I ask is just a little compared to what we have done in service to you! This is for your protection, don't you understand?"

"What are you talking about?" America glares. "There's nothing to protect me from. And I'm big now, I don't—"

Something clatters violently against the floor. "Sorry," Canada murmurs, bending from his seat to pick up his fork. England has forgotten his presence entirely, for a moment just staring at his other colony in realization while the stillness holds. On purpose or not, the distraction has done nothing to keep England from connecting the dots and drawing the bitter conclusion.

_I don't need you._

America continues, eyes hard. "And so the answer to your question is _no_. No, I _don't_ understand."

Something sinks down the pit of his stomach, unsettling and alien, like poison. "Of course you wouldn't understand. Nobody expects you to—_I_ don't expect you to. You are, simply put, too young to grasp how things work. You don't think about the long-term benefits of this, no—all you care about is yourself. Getting what you want."

Canada is a pale, still doll in his seat, eyes fixed determinedly on his plate. Across the table, America's eyes are dark with anger; they hold each other's eyes for minutes, the fire in the corner snapping, flickering rapidly, losing fuel and starts to ebb, threatening to go out.

"Now," England says, finally tearing his eyes away and straightening. "Enough of this useless prattling, I say. Be a good lad and finish your dinner."

"No."

England and Canada both freeze. America has never directly disobeyed England before.

"No," he repeats, for a moment looking almost as shocked himself. But only for a moment. Then the look in his eyes is gone, replaced by a coldness England has never seen before; this boy before him is not the America he raised, not the little child who giggled and grabbed his hand and wove flower wreaths for his head. _A king needs a crown, right?_ he had said, smile sun-bright.

This wasn't his America. The stranger rises from his seat, dinner left for the flies, and turns to face the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" England demands, as the memory shatters around him. America ignores him.

"Let's go, Canada," America twists his head to address his brother, who is now pointedly looking anywhere but at him.

"I… "He squirms visibly, lower lip caught between his teeth. He breathes. "I'm sorry, Al…"

America turns back to face the door, stone-faced, like he already knew the answer. His hand closes around the handle. England's heart is pounding, his mind a procellous jumble of nothing and everything, and he wants to scream a million things right then, a prayer, an order, a plea . . . but then he realizes it doesn't matter anymore because Canada has fisted a hand on the table and cries out what he was too terrified to say.

"Please don't go, Al. _Please_."

But Alfred is already gone.

**1770**

England is running.

The sleeve of his left pant leg clings to him like second-skin, damp and uncomfortable as he moves, the skin beneath still stinging from where he'd been scalded by hot tea when the gunshots rang out and he'd spilled some on himself.

One of his men catches up beside him, a bloom of bright red against a colorless world. "What happened?" England asks tersely, not really listening as the man replies, gasping and stuttering and just _panicking_, and England wishes he didn't do that, not when his fears slowly start to turn into reality as they round a corner, and the sinking feeling he has just _drops_, like a block of ice into the pit of his stomach, his blood going cold like he'd plunged into the very heart of the Atlantic.

There's throng of people swarming the scene, fresh corpses, and America, right at the center of it all, cradles a man's head on his lap with bloody, trembling fingers, shoulders shaking and tears carving out the grime as they streak down his face. Slowly, he lifts his eyes and finds England's easily amongst the crowd. . . there's a coiled violence in them, his eyes, almost feral, an air of static splitting behind the irises, and all England can do is watch as the rage _snaps_.

**1773**

"Open the hatches!"

Their commander's voice rings out clear and sharp, and America does as he's told, falling into step with the rest of his people as if in a trance. It's eerily silent, that is, before they're ordered to crack open the chests of tea and throw them overboard. There's a shuffle of movement, and then the air fills with solid thuds and cracks and the splash of water as the packages break the harbor's surface.

America stares at the chest in front of him. He hasn't done anything yet, fingers clasped loosely around his tomahawk, useless at his side.

"_You will do as I say, like the good colony you are, do you understand, Alfred? There's a good lad."_

As if coming to life, he grasps the weapon tightly, forcefully, fingers dusted coal-black and winding around the weapon's hilt like a vice. He raises it up behind him, the sharp edge glinting like a memory, and he brings it down on the chest, hard, hearing the satisfying _crack_ of splitting wood; splinters fly in all directions, and he strikes it again, harder. _Crack_. There's a fissure on the container, and tea leaves start to rise and cloud around his ankles.

America lets the ax slip from his hands as he kicks the chest towards the edge of the boat, where he can see the water slapping persistently against its side. It is only now that he realizes his hands are trembling. He clenches them until they go white –_ Coward. Don't chicken out now_ – releases them after a shuddering breath, blood rushing back in to color his hands again.

_I can't believe I'm actually going to do this—_

Then, before he can change his mind, he coils his leg back and whips it forwards, the chest spiraling down into the depths, coloring everything black.

**1775**

How Canada knows the presence behind him is America, he doesn't know for sure. Brotherly instinct, perhaps, or maybe the fact that Canada is just really paranoid these days, nerves frayed and causing him to twitch and jump at the slightest whisper of sound. America doesn't know it, but Canada has been expecting that this time would come, sooner or later anyway, the day America would sneak away into his country and climb the maple tree outside his house, swing silently through his window and force him to his side against England.

"Why are you here?"

"I sent you two letters," America says simply behind him. No greetings. No warm hugs. Nothing the old America would do years ago. Canada just stares at the wall, contemplating if he should turn around and face him. If he did, what would he see? "And you didn't answer any of them."

He imagines how he looks like. Taller now, definitely, a head taller than England, at least. Same bright, hopeful eyes. Same lopsided smile. Same arms that can scoop both England and him over his shoulders, as though they were nothing but sacks filled with air. In many ways, America is still the same. But also so very different.

"I think I've made it very clear what my stance was on this, Alfred," he manages to say, despite himself. His hands are trembling and sweating profusely on his lap, and he swipes them on his thighs in a quick, sideways motion. America must not see his weakness.

"But Mattie, there's nothing for you here!" Alfred cries, all pent up frustration bursting out, betraying the unflappable façade he had everyone almost believe. Almost. He pounds one foot forward. "England's selfish. He's been denying us so much for so many years, and we didn't even realize it! But now I do, and if you actually _read_ my letter, I'm sure you do too! So what the _hell_ are you waiting for?"

"How many times have we been through this? I'm sorry, but my answer is no, just like it has been before, and just like it always will. You can't expect me to betray England, Al." If growing up with America has taught Canada anything, it's that he can never be soft with him. America will push and push to get whatever he wants, and usually he did whenever England, the doting mother, was concerned. But Canada has learned to be firm and tough; otherwise it would be the downfall of them all.

America sighs. "I guess I can't convince you, huh."

"Glad we understand each other." He hates doing this to him, acting all cold and pretending he didn't care. _But it would be for the best_. "If you've got no more business left, you can leave."

Silence. Canada suppresses the violent urge to turn around and cross the room and just wrap his arms around his brother after so many months of separation.

He hears America deflate behind him, then the shuffling of his feet as he turns to leave. "I care about you, Matt, remember that, alright? I hope you'll forgive me."

Before a question even forms in his head, America twists the handle and the door comes slamming open. Suddenly the warning bells start to go off in Canada's head—_didn't America go through the window?_ – but it's too late, much too late, because the next thing he hears is the heavy pounding of boots – _boots? Was America wearing boots?_ – making the floorboards groan and shudder as the sound approaches him at his end of the room. It's only now that Canada twists his head around, neck cracking painfully, and his eyes widen with the horrible realization that America has betrayed him, has led his men spilling inside his room with their muskets raised and pointed at him like a daggers . . . he pales and looks desperately at America, at his brother, and he sees a fleeting look of uncertainty cross his eyes before he fades from view as two men converge in front of him and grab him roughly on the shoulders, hauling him up.

"Alfred—! Don't do this," He pleads, as his arms are grabbed and twisted violently behind him. "E- England!"

America's eyes are hard as they reappear from the flock of blue uniforms. "England's not coming. This would be easier if you would just snap out of it and join me."

"_You_ snap out of it!"

"I don't wanna fight you, Matt," America frowns. "But it's gotta be done."

Canada kicks and screams and bites like an animal. He flings his head back to collide painfully with someone's head, and his hands are wonderfully released for a moment, before they're grabbed again a split second later as fingers like claws grip his hair and yank his head back, until he's staring into America's eyes with barely concealed fury.

"Then," he hisses, eyes boring into his brother's – _America, America, are you still there?_ "it'll be a fight you're going to lose."

**1778**

"Do not get cocky now, mon cher, just because I have signed an alliance with you."

The fog rises from the darkness and roils behind the window as France peers through it, half of his face bathed in moonlight. He continues, "You still have ways to learn about the art of warfare. Angleterre has his troops lined up and they are more than ready to come out of their filthy hiding places and strike us in our sleep."

America pauses in polishing his musket and cracks an empty smile from his spot on the floor. "Yeah. Yeah, I can totally see England doing that. The sore loser."

The dry smile on France's face quickly morphs into a hard line, voice serious all at once, "It is not an easy task. Being a nation, I mean. We are unlike humans, who are here today and gone tomorrow. We are not swayed by time's hand." He presses a palm to the clouded surface, and then he takes it away, leaving a clear imprint of his hand. A few breaths later and it fades once again into the fog, leaving nothing. "But our fate is in the hands of our people. First and foremost, it is our duty to serve them, not vice versa. The roads we travel are the roads our people yearn to take."

America's brows furrow. "Uh—what? What suddenly brought this up?"

France turns his eyes towards the boy and sighs, with the exasperation of someone trying to explain the wonders of the universe to an impertinent, callow youth. Seeing this, America feels his defenses rising; this would not be the first time he has seen this expression.

"You want this, do you not? Freedom. Freedom for your people. Freedom to be your own nation. Once you win this war, you will face all kinds of trials. And they will be terrible, I can tell you that. You are young, and it is not a wonder England wants to keep you as far away as possible from it. I will be there to guide you, of course, as I have promised, and you have shown me that you and your men are competent enough. However, mon cher, I would just like to… make sure. Are you ready for this, Amerique?"

America's eyes are blue, bluer than anything France has ever seen in all the years of his faded history, and once they bore into his he realizes the question isn't necessary after all, incongruous as it must have sounded.

"Of course I am," the boy says, in a voice of a man who knows what he wants and will not stop to get it, whatever it is. "Just as you said, right? My people want this. They—we've been wanting this for so long. And right now, the road they desire is the road of war. The road to freedom."

**1781**

There is blood everywhere.

It's on the ground, sprayed on the grass and dirt and on every blue and white uniform, caked under fingernails; the filth of the fallen. There are dark smudges specked here there on France's arm, still-warm and thick as paste beneath his grasping fingers as he drags America – shivering, pale, hollow-eyed America – to his feet.

"It is over," he tells the boy, voice hard as steel. "We have won. Get up, it is not far now."

America makes no notice of having heard; he sits there, kneeling, the light gone from his eyes, jaw slack as a spray of dark blood gathers on his eyebrow and paints the left side of his face like mist. It is only when France pries his wet fingers apart from his musket does he come alive, stillness gone as the stricken look rises up behind his eyes, shoulders shuddering violently as fresh, dry sobs come tearing out to shatter the night.

"I- I- He . . . Eng- England," His eyes dilate in horror, and he gasps, breathing coming in harsh and quick, lips white as death. "He- I- I didn't m-mean to. . . sho- im – the h-h-head . . . France, he's- he's g-gone and there s-so much blood . . . _there's so much blood_—"

"Calm yourself!" France cries into his face, gripping his collar and pulling him upright. His blue eyes flicker uncontrollably before they steady. "Angleterre is not _dead_." At the word America's legs falter beneath him, and he slides down to the dirt, France relinquishing his hold as the boy dry-heaves on the ground.

"You are still just a child," he whispers.

**1765-i**

They are late for supper and it is all because of France.

They were on their short evening strolls when the frog had called America's name—no, _purred_ it, with that disgustingly lewd smile as he sauntered over, lifted the boy's hand and pressed his lips on the soft flesh between his knuckles. America had visibly colored, and England swatted his hand away like it was fly – _the gall! Showing up here on _his_ territory!_ France had merely laughed, and then there was a look he and America had shared, sly and secretive; England had seen it in the way the frog's mouth curved, the way America's eyes twinkled in challenge, hard around the edges. Before he knew it, the Frenchman was sprawled out on the floor, nose a bloody mess as he marched away, dragging America with him.

And now they are late for supper, Canada undoubtedly waiting for them by the door, America's people shooting him stares as they weave through the streets and France's voice ingeminating in his head, malicious and jesting: _"Now, now, mon ami, my foolish Angleterre, if you are not careful, he will surely slip away!"_

**1783**

England fingers the fine script on the Treaty's surface. Around the table, the officials are looking at him, waiting. What else can he say? He had lost America. He had lost him a long, long time ago.

That was really all there was to it.

**1763-i**

This is the year England finds a hole the size of the moon at the bottom of his wallet, a whole chunk of his money just _gone_, but it's alright; now that France is nothing but _a dirt-eating loser_, England is just glad with the way things are finally looking up.

He has collected his share of the spoils of war; one of them – Canada, the tiny little thing, who was brought to his doorstep presumably by the frog –had been continuously weeping for the past five hours, hair a disheveled mess and face damp with a deplorable mixture of snot, tears and the thick chicken soup America had offered him, which Canada had accidentally tipped back on himself because the boy had spoken too loudly. Hence the cacophony that continued to ensue afterwards.

It is quiet now, at least, Canada just staring out the window, America sitting cross-legged by the fire in the same silent fashion, brooding, now that he has someone to share England's attention with. And today he had not been given that much for the matter, either.

Suddenly, an idea clicks in England's head, and he slides an old, leather-bound book from the shelf and settles on the large grandfather's chair, its spine straining as he flips it open with delicate fingers. There's a lilting sound of tiny bells as his faeries descend from the cupboard, their glittering, spindly bodies curling against the juncture of his neck as they peer at the text, curiosity piqued, and England clears his throat to draw attention from his colonies.

"_It happened that on New Year's morning, Sir Hector Anton and his sons, Sir Kay, were riding toward London_ . . . "he begins, and America's head perks up, eyes bright and playful as he crawls over, tiny arms looping around tiny folded legs. He feels a rapid, excited flutter of wings against the shell of his ear as the sweet cadence of his voice lulls the room into a warm, sleepy silence. By the window, Canada spares a small curious glance, until the story draws him forth like a spell and he settles down next to America, eyes wide and rapt with attention. By the time the climax nears, America had been mouthing the words he knew by heart, and he shoots up from the floor to pull the imaginary sword from the imaginary rock, whirling around on his toes and stabbing poor Canada at the breast.

"And the hero slays the fearsome dragon and saves his fair princess—and they live happily ever after!"

**1807**

It's still a good ten minutes before the world conference even begins, two major players of the issue still an empty space on their seats when the door slams open with a fulminating bang and America storms in, crosses the room with a few long strides to where England sits sipping tea at the far end of the table and punches him.

The creamy china set flies and shatters against the tiled floor, a dark, burning stain spreading torpidly on England's suit as his chair tips back, wobbles, crashes down, taking him with it. At the back of his mind England registers Italy's panicked screaming, Canada yelling angrily at America as his hands hover gently over his body.

England is stunned, his mind a blank sheet; his cheek pounds with a dull ache as it swells up rapidly like a soufflé, turning a sickening shade of purple. Then he remembers who he is, and he gathers himself, on his feet now, ignoring Canada's offered hand, as he shoots the colo—the _nation_ an equally inimical glare.

"_How dare you_," America hisses through clenched teeth. "How dare you treat my men like that. You step all over my policies like they're nothing and stick your nose into every goddamn thing I do. You've insulted me far enough." His breathing is harsh, uneven. "You've crossed the line this time, England."

"Oh, look at you!" England jibes, angry, because anger is easy. "The little tyke is all grown up – come to play dress-up here in his little uniform, so adult-like and _mature_—"

The second punch is expected; it comes sailing through the air and collides with his nose with a sickening _crunch_, blood gushing out like a faucet and sliding down his face.

"Enough!" France shouts, panic tingeing his voice, and England staggers, back thudding sharply against the table's edge as he attempts to stem the bleeding, Canada blocking America's face from view before he has the chance to gauge a reaction. "Violence is _not_ permitted in the meeting room!"

He shoves Canada to the side and grabs his own chair; tilting his face to the right, he sees America standing there, panting, blue eyes dilated with a flicker of horror and rage, blond hair falling on his forehead like year-old straw, longer and messier than England remembered, skin darkened under the sun and—

America is still so beautiful.

He smiles bitterly through bloodied teeth. "Good show, old boy."

**1814**

_England is stubborn, but he isn't cruel._

He repeats the thought over and over in his head, a mantra he desperately wants to believe, anything to make the horrible reality dissipate along with everything around him – the thick, black pother, the ash swirling up into the empty void of sky, and his Capitol, his Capitol in flames –

Another surge of flame, another white-hot lick of fire, and America's eyes roll up behind his head, crumpling to the floor in a shivering pile of palsied limbs.

"Do you feel it, Al? Do you?" Canada whispers harshly above him, and he wants to reply, to shout – _yes, goddammit, _yes!_ –_ but he can't because another wave of searing fire ripples through him, and he can't breathe, can't think, _how could England_—

Hands clenched, Canada begins to weep silently. He can't do it—he can't leave America after all. He drops to knees and wraps his arms tenderly around his brother, both of them scarred.

"I'm sorry," America rasps.

"I know."

**1853**

It is not the first time that this happens.

England gives in because he's a frustrated old man, and France just does it to ruffle the man's feathers, pulling away when England really gets into the kiss to leer at him and wink knowingly at the obvious tent in the Englishman's pants.

"You said his name," France taunts, and he ducks the shoe that comes sailing through the air and almost smacks him full on the face.

"I did not!" England retorts, shaking with righteous anger.

His face lights up in a sleazy, triumphant smile. "Now there is your mistake, ma chère Angleterre. I do not remember mentioning anyone in particular, now, did I?" The man turns beet-red, and France turns to escape while he still can. Quickly, he adds, "Now remember: _Honesty is the best policy_. It does more bad than good, bottling up all those… feelings inside. Just a little word of advice from the country of _l'amour_."

France cackles, dodging yet another shoe, as he scampers towards his exit to the pleasant sound of England's enraged spluttering.

**1893**

Things are different now, it seems. Something has changed between them. It's a small change, England thinks, nothing terribly severe, but at least they are actually civil towards each other now. He is content with the way things are; at least he can look at America without them starting another brawl on the meeting table. He knows it can get better, but England doesn't want to rush things, doesn't want to risk this… _relationship_ (if it could even be called that), doesn't want to push too hard lest he witness it crumble into dust beneath his very fingertips.

"I kinda thought you'd decline my invitation," America says once they finally spot each other in the crowd. How they managed to do it, England has no idea; there are thousands of people everywhere, gathering here from all the obscure corners of the earth to attend the Chicago Word Fair, to have a taste of the New World America has offered right on a silver platter.

England doesn't really know how to respond, so he settles for a curt noncommittal sound which America doesn't really make much of; he grabs his wrist and drags him away, whisking him to see each and every little thing he's put up for show. If America notices how England has gone stiff and pale like a boxed up doll beside him, he makes no comment on it.

America is dashing despite his slipshod cowboy ensemble, eyes bright like a familiar sun, and England fights the urge to cry like an emotional loon. He has grown up now over the years, that's for sure, wiser and confident after enduring the worst of so many trials. He leads him through the winding streets, past buildings he built and rebuilt with his own hands, and suddenly England realizes with silent awe that this is America's dream come alive; the colored fountains, technicolor sights and sounds, glittering inventions one can only imagine fluttering out of the pages of what seemed like fantasy years ago; colossal skyscrapers glinting in the moonlight, the lights of Chicago ablaze like tiny suns and the splendor of the White City as it towers over everything like something proud, like something defiant.

"What d'ya think?" America prompts, grinning like a fool. "Better than the Crystal Palace – am I right, or am I right?"

Years ago America had showed him the blueprint. He had scoffed, told him it was never going to work; to leave it to Germany or Japan, people who actually had the brains to do it. And now— now that he has seen it with his own eyes, no longer a dream or an illusion, England honestly doesn't know what to say. America has finally proven him wrong, everything everywhere pressing around him as if saying, _see, see, I told you I could do it—_

And he did. America did it. And—

England is proud.

"Maybe," he says finally and turns his face to America, smiling, smiling.

**1914**

Years have passed like a neglectful flipping of pages, days falling away to lie like the mottled corpses of leaves at his feet, and America realizes he should've regarded those days for what they were – a temporary stillness, a comma. The calm before the storm.

Lately his office is always occupied by nations, presidents, important figures in the military, but mostly it's by England. Frankly, he's used to it, these visits, far too accustomed to it by now to really think much of it. He already knows what they want from him. All of them, marching inside his office and demanding him to join the fray, another one of Europe's pointless wars that end in nothing but blood, death, and more death.

(But when it's one of England's visits, the man just sits silently across the table and sips his tea, making small talk about the weather and politics, doesn't even breach the topic of the war or the fact ten of his men lose their lives in the trenches for every second he wastes in silence until America can't take it anymore and blurts it out himself.)

But today is different. The man that comes walking through his door is not the same England. His suit is wrinkled, and America imagines shaky, uncoordinated hands carelessly swiping the iron across the cloth, mind elsewhere, occupied with much more dire things. Beneath that, his form is thinner, skin colored with an unhealthy pallor; his eyes, dark, sunken tunnels framed by a thatch of unbarbered hair. But the look he gives him is by no means weak. England stares him down with hard green eyes, fiercely determined, and America pretends not to notice that his hands are trembling as the man lifts his teacup to his lips.

Sometimes people forget he's the British Empire, and it's times like these that America can't imagine how he could too.

America knows the drill. England will ask him to join their side and America will refuse, like he always does, and England will acquiesce, get up, thank him for his time, quietly leave and return back home. Back to the starving thousands. Back to the trenches.

And so is what happens. America watches England's mouth move, afraid to meet his eyes, and listens to what he has to say; he hears his own voice in response, mechanical, stagnant, like something out of a recording on repeat. He wonders how many times England has sat there and listened to this same old speech, this same old excuse, and how he still manages to come each and every time without fail when he knows how this all turn out in the end.

But this time it doesn't quite turn out that way; England's entire body deflates, a doll unraveling on the seams, the light in his eyes the only proof of life as he breathes, a single broken whisper tumbling unbidden past his lips—

"_Please_."

And it's so sudden, so unexpected; America finally meets his eyes, and his throat constricts, doesn't what to do or say or think . . . he feels like a rock he's been leaning on for support come loose and it leaves him staggering back, fingers grasping empty space – because England has never begged, has never come this low in his life, and now he hears him crystal clear as he continues, hands clenched on the tabletop, his tea turning cold, "I've heard what you and your boss has to say, I've heard it countless times, and- I understand, at least a little, but—" He pauses, takes a shuddering breath. "No one is alone in this world, America. Remember that. You cannot avoid this war—I've tried, I can tell you that. And bloody hell, look where that's got me. My people are being backed into a corner, they're dying, women, children, and if- if you- if nobody comes- if this goes on any further, I'll—"

England falters, gaze dropping to the side, leaves the sentence to hang heavily in the air. He knows enough to fill in the unsaid, and America feels his entire body turn cold.

"I… I can't," is all he says, helpless, numb. "You know I can't, England."

_I want to help you—_

And he just sits there, watches as England breaks a little and holds himself together again in a trice, just a flicker of emotion passing through his eyes so fleeting it may have never even existed. "Of course," England says finally, and his voice sounds strange to America's ears, as if a ventriloquist is speaking for him. "Of course," he repeats, whispering. He rises to his feet, slowly, and turns to leave. Then, he angles his head one last time towards him, and smiles. "Thank you for your time. Have- have a nice day."

And then he leaves, and America doesn't stop him.

**1940**

He cannot fall.

England thinks of this, grasps the words tightly around his fist like a brace as the weight of the sky collapses on his shoulders – _he cannot fall_ – as the air explodes and the world flashes with light – _he cannot fall _– as his bridges crumble, towers collapse, bones snapping like twigs beneath rubble – _he cannot fall_ – as the thousands scream, cease to be, in the belly of coiling flames – _he cannot fall_, because if he does, the rest of the world will fall with him.

And so he holds on, steels himself as another blinding flash of white glares through his window, and another bomb drops, again and again and again—

**1941**

—and again and again and again as America's teeth clench and he curls into himself, everything around him nothing but vestiges of an old memory; the air shatters and fire and smoke and rubble billow upwards only to come falling down as embers, burning shards of a broken world—

Would England forgive him if he cried? Would he sneer if he saw him in this state, so easily ruined when he and the rest of the world had stood their ground against the enemy after years and years of pain and destruction? Somehow, America believes the first and doubts the latter, and so he allows himself a sob, a scream; so this is how it feels, to have a part of you so easily and so ruthlessly destroyed. At least, now, he understands, even a little—the world has done its part, and now he must too.

He has kept England waiting for far too long.

**1763-ii**

"That's not how the story goes, I'm afraid, "England chuckles, as America slides what is probably meant to be the legendary sword into its invisible sheath, ignoring Canada's cries as he bounds towards him like an over-eager little puppy. "You see, once this young boy draws the sword, he fulfi—"

"Of course that's how it goes!" America cries righteously, tiny hands digging on the man's thighs for support as he leans forward, bright blue eyes staring right into his. "That's always how it goes. Every hero has a princess, right? And a hero always protects his princess, no matter what. Even if they're far, far away from each other, even if there's a _whoooole_ ocean separating them! The hero will always return to his princess, and will always come if she needs him. Always."

**1942**

In an ironic turn of events, today it's America who comes walking through the grand oak doors of England's office, his President and a couple of head officials in tow. He sees the Englishman's tired form shift and turn to face him as he approaches, their gazes meet, and this time America doesn't look away.

He holds his eyes steadily, like something fragile; tries to tell him silently that now, finally, he _understands_. And he's not planning on backing out anytime soon.

"I'm with you, from now on," he tells England determinedly, as Churchill and Roosevelt's outlines recede from view. "I- I'm sorry it took so long. But I'm here now."

England's face breaks into a smile and America reaches over and twines their fingers together for the first time in a hundred and eighty years.

**1944**

They did it. Paris is free.

The victory sings in the air, sweet, palpable; it swathes the converging multitudes that emerge from the darkness and gather on the streets, back into the light, women, children, soldiers that have fought for years and are tired and worn, but rejoicing nonetheless, empty pistols and flags raised high and triumphant like the proud spires of a cathedral.

England pushes his way to the front, past mothers weeping joyfully and men who have broken out into a jig; the tanks are rolling out of the streets, hushed beasts lumbering back into the shadows, the last one ebbing from view as France finally reveals himself. He approaches England with a slight limp, bruised all over, but his eyes—

"Paris is mine," France says.

England gazes at the crowd, hears the tinkling laughter, the singing; looking back at France, he smiles, "And it always will be."

—His eyes are alive again.

"Thank you," he breathes in his own tongue.

And then England takes off, footsteps hard and quick against the dirt; he turns a corner, past a marching parade, past a reunion, past a flock of men gathering around a flagpole as a flag flutters down and their own inches up slowly up to peak in the sky . . . past the tanks, the soldiers, doesn't' stop until he reaches the very edge of the road and sees America in the distance, tearing off his flight goggles, making his way towards him. . . America, standing tall, smiling, proud and beautiful, always beautiful, like he always has been for all these years, and England thinks he has never loved him more than in this moment . . . he stops in front of him, head blotting out the sun as he looks down and says, stupidly, "Nice work today, old man," and nobody really remembers exactly what happens next, everything else left a mystery for all the years to come because in the next moment they reach for each other at the same time, hands clumsily slipping around necks and pressing close . . . for some reason England's feet leave the ground, not that it really matters at the moment because he's kissing America, and America is kissing _him_, fingers curling behind his neck and holding him secure, holding him close, and all England can think of is _at last, at last_ . . .

"I've—"England begins as they pull away, flushed and maybe a just a tad dizzy, America gently lowering him to the ground. "I've been… wanting to- to do that—"

"For centuries," America blurts out earnestly, and his cheeks fill with color, averting his eyes to the side like a shy little child. He coughs, "I mean, me too."

England stares at him. "A bloody long time, if you ask me," he comments, and suddenly laughter bubbles out past America's lips, and he's lifted once again, whispering years worth of _I'm sorry's_ and _I love you's _against his neck as he twirls him around and around - just like the way England used to when he was a child – all the years that have passed falling away into dust, into nothing, scattering into the wind under the liberated skies of Paris.

**20-?**

"You know, it's funny," America ponders out loud, voice echoingly loud in the darkness of their room. Beside him, burrowed under layers and layers of blue sheets, England shifts slightly and frowns.

"Would you please go to sleep already?"

"Sure, sure, but wait, before that, I just realized something," he persists.

"God save us all," he mutters dryly beneath the sheets. Before America can start griping, he quickly adds, "Just whisper at least, would you, poppet?"

"Sure thing, babe," he grins. His voice drops, "Now, where was I? Oh yeah. So it just kinda crossed my mind just now. Don't you think it's kinda weird, that just years ago I totally pissed Japan off by bombing the hell outta him, and like, now, we're what, _best_ _friends_? Aren't we supposed to hate each other after all that crap? You know, like you and France? Hey- England, are you still even listening to me?"

"Yes, yes, of course," he says, voice lacking any interest whatsoever. "Very strange, indeed. How very peculiar."

Sarcasm now. America pouts and turns to look at where a sliver of England's head peeks out of the covers. "Oh c'mon Artie," he grins. "You're just being jealous of Kiku."

That gets him a reaction. "Of course not!" he huffs indignantly, head whipping back to shoot him a nasty glare over his shoulder. And then, in a biting tone; "On a first-name basis now, I see."

"See? You _are_ jealous!" America laughs. When England doesn't respond, he sighs, burrowing deeper under the sheets and slips an arm over the man's chest, pressing his nose against the nape of his neck. "Oh you know I was just messing with ya. Relax, I only love _you_, alright? And that's not the end of my story. That's really actually what got me to thinking… about _us_."

Finally, curiosity piqued, England's head emerges fully beneath the covers, eyes on the wall. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Our history, I mean. It's stranger than my history with Kiku, or with anyone else for that matter, I can tell you that," he chuckles lightly. "I mean, there's _you_, you're- the United Kingdom of Great Britain and- and—"

"Northern Ireland?" England offers sardonically.

"Right. And you're the fucking greatest empire in the entire _world_, like, ever!" His hand leaves England's hip to wildly gesticulate his point; it flops back down a second later with a soft thud. "And then, there's _me_."

"There's you."

"Uh-huh. Me," America's face breaks into a grin against England's hair. "The coolest, awesome-st, _sexiest_—"

"Oh please," England's back thrums as a light laugh escapes his body. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Hey! It's true, an' you know it!" he cries, pushing himself up with his elbow, the blanket falling of his chest like a trickle of water as he shoots him a glare. "_Anyway. _There's you, and there's me. Period. You found me and decided to take care of me as I grew up, which technically makes you my mother, right? Well, I guess not, 'cause then turn you out to be a massive _jerk _some time later—and, _man_, were you a piece of work—"

"Alfred…" England warns darkly under his breath.

"Sorry, sorry! Well, I guess I'm a little at fault too," he smiles sheepishly. "We go our separate ways, I become my own nation and you grow to be The Ruthless Empire, sticking your flag into every piece o' land your set your eyes on, and quite frankly everything goes downhill from there. It's not long before we got to war with each other, and then a few years after that, another war, but this time it's got the strongest world powers as players and this time we're allies… somewhat. It was awkward for both of us- well, it was for me. I didn't really know how to act around you. I mean, should I pretend to hate you or what? But I didn't though, I really didn't, and that was probably what made everything so awkward."

"It was the same for me," England admits softly, voice muffled through the cloth.

"Yeah. Well, my boss finally joins the war, and we save your asses. But then Germany decides to go all psycho and starts shoving swastikas down everyone's throats, and well, nobody was really a big fan of that except Italy and Japan, and then, _bam_—! World War two, baby."

England regards him with baleful look. "And where exactly is your… _realization_ in this story?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm getting to that part," he pats him fondly on the head. "And so it's war again, right? France falls, and you're the only one left standing against the Axis, and all did was watch from a distance. It took a little longer for me to join you, some talks between our leaders here, a bombing there, an epiphany, but I came around eventually. Couldn't resist you, you know? I kick their assess _again_, we fall in love, and all is right with the world." America's face breaks into a smile. "It's so weird, right? Like a- a plot twist or something."

This time England shifts his entire body until their chests are flush against each other, faces only breaths apart, his lips curling upwards. "A plot twist, indeed."

A grin. "Who would've thought, huh?" he echoes, voice rising like fog, his hand worming its way under sea of sheets to find England's, encasing it within his warm fingers, the rest of the night falling away to the dawn and the constant drumming of another heart against his own.

X

**A/N**: Sappy ending is sappy :D

This was waaaay longer than I expected it to be. I wanted to add more events to the story, but that would be suicide. Anglo-American history is LONG, oh my God.

So there you go, my first written work for the fandom, and my first story I've written in about a YEAR (notice I'm a little rusty? yeah)

I wrote this because I wanted to familiarize myself with the characters, play a little, see what I'm gonna work with (before I jump into writing this Cardverse AU of epic proportions that I have just been _dying_ to write ever since I saw pictures of it on tumblr.) And partly because the Revolutionary War never gets old

Hoped you enjoyed it! I'd love to know what you think. Reviews are love.


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